It is quiet inside as Judah sleeps and Isaac reads on the hammock. It's a beautiful day, the first weekend of spring weather here in Texas. Purple flowers are sprouting up on the side of the road and everywhere the grass is green and new.
We went for brunch in town, at a little café crowded with others who also came out of winter hibernation. After enforcing a few boundaries Judah settled, eating egg from my egg sandwich and snuggling with us on big arm chairs while we read. It is our day of rest, Saturday, and I spent the last hours reading, my soul quiet after weeks of busyness. It is beautiful, and the light streaming in from the window shifts with the waving of the tree branches outside.
I find myself wondering about the future. Today I know the routine, but so much is unknown. Will we leave in a few months, or a year? Will we grow roots and settle, melding ourselves and our cultures so that this new place is home and our life work is to pour ourselves out for that place and those people? Will I grow to know the roads, the smells, the small details as my own? Will the people become my family?
Or will we be redirected, as so many are, by change, be it illness or war or the calling of a God whose plan is inscrutable? What if we have itinerant lives? Maybe we will shift with the need, moving across the country to wherever the calling us on us meets the darkness. I always wonder if one day China will open and draw us in.
Maybe this will just be for a time, and someday I will learn to make America home in a way it's never been.
So much will change. I will change. This family will grow and change. What sorrows will we go through? The world will change in ways I can't predict now.
Will I learn a soul-quiet that will carry me no matter what way the winds blow, no matter what happens, no matter what path I'm guided down?
I don't even know what I wish for. Sometimes I am excited, sometimes afraid. Sometimes I want a home and long memories, and sometimes I want to shake it all of and be the unencumbered adventurer.
Soon Judah will fuss as he wakes up from his nap and I will meet outstretched arms and get him up. I will clean the house and try to find something to make for dinner out of the last of the week's food before we go get groceries tonight. These things are mundane and I am often tired, because these years of working and little children are the tired years. This is the season I am in now, and only the early years of it, and in the evenings when Judah is delighted I remember that this is a gift that doesn't last long, when my children are small and I watch life begin.
Thank you, Father, for today. For the light through the windows and the warmth and rest. Thank you for the sweet babbling and soft white skin and the joy of a child's presence. Thank you for a husband who changes diapers and sets boundaries and gets on the floor to play. Thank you for this little free house for this year, for the gift of extra years in this place that I did not want or expect, for the joy of finding confidence and usefulness. Thank you for the gift of a work place that is a home that I will soon give up, for the lessons learned in a church family, for these years of growing up in marriage and responsibility.
I don't know what comes next, I can't see the span of my days or what they will be like. I ask for one thing, because I think I feel my shallowness more than ever before, and I pray that if nothing else, my life is a journey deeper into the wild adventure of knowing Jesus more intimately.
Indeed, I count everything as loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord.
(Philippians 3:8 ESV)